The Nature of the Unknown
by KorrohShipper
Summary: (Let's all agree that the third film does not exist) Inspired by Pushing Daisies, discover how immortality is a curse brought down to an individual to be plagued by the memories of death, the deaths of the people she loves.


**_I do not own the Mummy trilogy. Universal Studios does that for me, unfortunately. I own nothing, zilch—nada!_**

 ** _Oh, and do kindly ignore the third film to accommodate the main idea of the one-shot._**

* * *

Life shouldn't be tampered with, nothing should interfere the continuous flow and course of life. Life is natural and unnatural, whether or not it began and or ended in a natural or unnatural way, there should be no interference, there should be no altering or change of any kind, whatsoever.

Life is delicately sensitive, as any living or mythical creature should be, and is carefully balanced, so fragile that a single out-of-place event, even if it was just for a second, could ruin each and every future around the life so-unfortunately changed, drastically. Again, to emphasize the topic, _furthermore_ , life is not to be messed with—not even for a fraction of a second, not even for a righteous cause, and most definitely not for a dying wish because the world is not a wish-granting factory.

Life is not to be ended early or extended late, that is a universal rule and a truth so reluctantly acknowledged, yet it is barely acted upon.

Now the nature of the unknown is quite, _well_ , unknown. Only a few, a handful of people have braved the life beyond death only to come back, not all of them remember the details, as it should remain a secret for it is to remain the unknown. _However_ , the secrets have become known to men over the centuries, such as the secret to eternal life, and although immortality seems like a gift worthy to be treasured and coveted by kings and leader, it is a curse most painful and deadly.

But men, _humans_ , have already shown a tendency to ignore and disobey a particular set of rules for their own gain and advantage, resulting in pain and anguish.

So, next time you see a black book with Egyptian markings, seemingly made out of pure gold, and has a key slot, remember to lock it in a chest and throw it away, to the farthest, most remote and isolated place you can find or bury it underneath your home's foundations because you'll the world a favor and myself a sense of peace of mind, by allowing myself to believe a reality in which I am only one who will suffer from the curse of immortality, of losing people over and over again, of outliving your children, of being alone for all of eternity. . .

I wish that I was never resurrected by my son.

Don't get me wrong, I'm grateful for the devotion he had and the thought of putting himself in danger just to bring me back to life had truly touched me, but reliving the memory, every day and in every dream in the dead of the night, hearing _his_ dying words and breath repeat themselves over and over again in my mind is just unbearable, it's too much for a person to handle, too hard for a person to cope while being all alone. It's barbaric, this form of torture.

During the first few years, my family and I have seen this as a blessing, seeing the things I vowed to see and discovering the world in the way it was before us. It was truly magnificent, my life before the painful epiphany, but age was catching up and it seemed to dodge me quite a lot to be listed under better knowledge and understanding of the human body, good genes, and top-quality resources. Age should have been noticeable, but it remained too discreet to go unnoticed, too silent to go without suspicion.

It wasn't until Alex joined the Air Force and the second World War when I started to take notice of these signs, but being the human I am, I was too stubborn to admit it.

I never told anyone of the wound I had while securing the safety of the artifacts from the British Museum. I was going to meet Rick at our rendezvous point at the outskirts of London, he was making arrangements with a friend, an old war pilot, regarding our escape when I was ambushed by some looters who ganged up on me, stabbing me in the stomach for how many times, I did not care enough to know— _I should have been dead_. I should have been dead from the blood loss, and there was no way I could've survived those wounds. . .but I did, and it was not miraculous.

It was only then when I decided to face the reality of the situation and connect the dots together, piece in the puzzle and come up with a simple, yet mind-boggling conclusion on how I ended up with my current predicament—coming back from the dead.

After that painful realization, that I would be cursed to walk this earth like a lost soul, everything in my life suddenly went south and down-hill. My luck had cashed in and it seems like everything I held dear was leaving me behind because I supposed to be here in the first place.

A mother should have been the glue to keep a family together, _always_ , but we still lost Alex, not to some mummy or our un-dead friend, Imhotep, but due to _ourselves_ —I've lost track on whose fault it was, whether it was mine or Rick's fault, but it was too late to pin the blame on anyone because he left to join the Air Force, the same age when his father had left for the French Foreign Legion, apparently, to impress some _lady_ in Paris.

Although we weren't on good terms, we've kept an eye on him, Rick and I, especially during the war. He was studying to become an archaeologist, following in our footsteps, and he _would've_ surpassed our achievements had he not been drafted into battle, to fight in Italy. I never had the strength to give me closure, to find out on whether or not he had survived the war, if he was one of the many soldiers who buried unnamed.

I never had the strength in me to face the reality in which I survived my son, in which I should've buried him yet I was not there. . .and that I couldn't.

I could only imagine the death that would have been his. I could only imagine as the pain I felt, however, was real.

 _Rick_.

Oh, dear Richard—he had died for nothing, how my heart breaks at the fact.

We were escaping war-torn London after securing the artifacts and treasures the British Museum had tasked us when some Nazis had spotted us, forcing us into an early landing in the Channel Islands. His friend, our pilot, " _Mad Dog_ " Maguire was shot mid-air and we took a plunge in the water. Rick and I had escaped, feeling relief, only to figure out that it was too soon to proclaim victory over the Nazis when a soldier had cornered us.

Rick, being Rick, went down fighting for _my_ life—he took a bullet to the stomach and another to the chest, somewhere around his left lung to shield me from the rain of bullets showering over us.

When he fell to the ground, it was like time had slowed down, intentionally, so that I wouldn't miss a single detail of his painful demise in front of me. I didn't care if I was struck by a bullet or two, I ran towards my husband and knelt down to his side, applying pressure to this wounds, failing to make myself believe that he was going to be fine. His final words haunt me to this day, the look and the shine that used to gleam in his eyes had slowly faded away as he lifted my bloodied hands from his wound.

"Take care of Alex, Evie," it was short and simple, to the point, something very Rick.

Something ticked inside of me as I watched him die. I remembered our vows, I remembered how I vowed to him that I would never allow any secret of whatsoever tear us apart and yet it did and I'm a big liar and bloody hypocrite, and for being, I paid a hefty price which resulted in the death of my husband, the death of Evelyn O'Connell, and the birth of wanderer who remained unchanged throughout the years, someone who had a mysterious past, someone who refused to confront the said past.

The final death I had witnessed was that of my brother's. Jonathan had died in a way he should have, and it was ironic. It was Jonathan, despite his continuous remarks of hating the business, who should have had more time on the field.

Jonathan was raised by our father to be his successor, as someone who would, someday, overshadow his achievements with his. Studying in some of Europe's finest boarding schools, one of those schools being Eton, he had failed to become what he was expected to be. This disappointment had been planted in his mind, thus creating the idea of his hatred for the business, the lack of passion for the art of discovering what was once lost—it was Jonathan, hands down, who deserved to be in the field more than anyone in our family.

So, I found it cruel for him to die an uneventful death as he should have been living his life instead of wasting it away, one bottle at a time as some sort of way of grieving for the family he has lost due to a war before finally giving up in his sleep, when his body refused to work and function anymore from both the booze and the grief brought on by a war that has fanned a fire in that kept burning this family way out of reasonable proportions, and way out of salvation.

He died without his favorite nephew, he died without saying goodbye to his only sister who lurked in the shadows, he died without thanking his best friend, and he died alone with no one by his side.

* * *

Soon, the name " _O'Connell_ " was finally eradicated from history. It was finally forgotten, though their contributions were highly promoted and fondly remembered, the contributors were far from credited.

Had I stayed dead, had I not been resurrected, perhaps things would have played out differently. Had I stayed dead after being stabbed by Anck-Su-Namun, maybe Alex would have had a better relationship with his father, maybe they would have cherished each other better had he been the only parent in his life and he would have been the only legacy and part of me that I could have left with him—had I died, so many doors would have opened up for them.

Jonathan could have been something more, he could have become a family man, realizing that life is short. Jonathan, had I never been resurrected, could have gotten a stronger grasp on his life, he could have become more independent, he could have become the man our father wanted him to be, but he didn't because I remained in his life and we became dependent on each other until I was suddenly forced to retract myself from him, causing him to self destruct.

Had I only remained dead, things would have turned out more differently, things would have turned out the way they should have.

Had we not tempted with fate, with the nature of the unknown, this sharp pang in my chest would have never been there and I would never be forced to be the lonely woman at the edge of the bar, sipping from a shot glass, terribly drunk, muttering names of the men some would think were lovers, leaving the money on the counter, and disappearing into night only to become a silhouette in front of a grave in a London cemetery and in front of an abandoned mansion, weeping silently.


End file.
